


To build a snowman

by Snappy_Snippets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Do You Want to Build a Snowman?, Fantastic Beasts spoiler, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Changes, Pre-Slash, Snow, Song fic, Winter, but not Pottermore compliant, if you look very closely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snappy_Snippets/pseuds/Snappy_Snippets
Summary: It's December 1998 and someone has just walked into a bright, sparkly new world. It's December 1998 and someone is blinded by the whiteness. It's December 1998 and someone is tired of the grey.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this 'Do You Want To Build A Snowman?' cover by Jasmine Thompson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwNrMUO6Sss).  
> I also decided to use it to practise writing shifting POVs, so please bear with me and if you find a moment to comment, let me know if it works for you, I will greatly appreciate it.

***

_Do you want to build a snowman? Come on, let's go and play!_

_I never see you anymore, come out the door._

_It's like you've gone away._

***

Harry bends down, feet wide apart and rolls the snowball across the ground, taking a few wobbly steps as the globe gathers snow, growing larger. 

The cold air makes the inside of his nose sting, the snow crunches under his boots and his scarf swings from left to right, collecting snow from the ball between his feet. It’s big enough, he thinks.

He takes a deep breath, his lungs hurting from the cold, and straightens out.

He squints. Everything is so bright. So new. The pond has frozen over, its milky white surface glossy and smooth. The garden is covered with a thick layer of white fluff, sparkly and shimmering, each snowflake reflecting light in a thousand directions at once.

The blood, the bones, the ashes are all gone, buried under a blanket of light, overtaken by a new beginning and, ironically, Harry feels as if he’s just woken up from a long winter sleep. 

‘Harry! We need the head! What’s the use of a carrot with nothing to… stick it into?’

‘Eugh, Ron!’ Hermione smacks Ron on the shoulder.

‘What? I didn’t mean it like _that_! You’re the one with the dirty mind!’

Harry smiles, picks up the snowball and carries it over to stack it onto the two bigger globes already in place. 

‘There.’

‘We need some small stones for the eyes.’

Ron drives the carrot into the snowman’s head and Hermione takes a few steps away and squats, her gloved hands raking through the snow until the earth underneath is revealed. It’s black and damp, like pieces of rotting flesh and Harry looks away.

‘Good to have you here with us, mate,’ Ron says quietly and pats him on the back.

Harry gives him a tight smile and nods.

‘Here we go.’ Hermione comes back with two small black stones and presses them into the snow globe. She takes a step back. ‘Looks a little sad without the mouth, though.’

Ron wraps an arm around Hermione’s waist and leans into her. ‘Ah, yes, the mouth is very important…’ He kisses her as she makes a snorting sound and smacks him again, this time across the chest. She pushes away from him and takes a step back.

‘And you say _I’m _the one with the dirty mind…?’ she drawls, squatting again and starting to gather snow into her hands.__

Ron points a finger at her, his lips stretching in a wide smile. ‘Oh, don’t you start!’

Hermione smirks, then glances at Harry and winks. ‘Start what?’ she asks Ron innocently, standing up and moulding a snowball with her hands.

Ron wags his finger playfully between her and Harry. ‘Oh, no! Don’t you try and drag him over to your side!’

‘Who said I was trying to do that?’ Hermione smiles, her arm swings and suddenly Harry’s chin is cold and he has snow under his collar.

Hermione runs away, laughing, Ron gives out a battle cry, starting to roll a snowball of his own and Harry has no choice but to defend himself.

After half a year of sleeping, wandering around the house and looking out of the window, the sudden rush of the movement overtakes his body and for the first time in months, or maybe years, he remembers what it’s like to feel truly alive. The air is crisp and fresh, the sunlight hits the snow and disperses, flickering in blue, red and orange and laughter has replaced the long silence in his ears.

A snowball misses him by just a few inches, flying over his shoulder and he takes cover behind a bush, the bare branches heavy, hanging low with the thick layer of snow. He hunkers down and digs his hands into the white fluff, but when he lifts them, his gloves are covered in grey-coloured slush, runny and soggy, a mixture of mud, mucky, half-rotten leaves and snow. He looks at his hands and suddenly the memory of throwing a handful of mud flashes through his mind. The cheerful voices in the distance fade away and Harry remembers.

*** 

The whiteness is blinding and yet, he’s still looking. The garden has succumbed to the first heavy snowfall of the year and now the world looks truly dead. Lost in a deep silent sleep, a soundless nightmare of painful light, burning itself into his retinas, making his eyes water. Everything is completely still. Motionless. Dead.

He can’t remember the summer. It went by in a blur of bright days and dark nights blending and interweaving, caught in a loop, trapped like he was in a bed with sheets moist from the nightmares. He remembers the autumn. He remembers thinking he moved from the bed to the window sill right in time to see the fountain fill with dark fallen leaves, rotting and turning the water into mud. Right in time to witness the world decay. So fitting. 

Now, winter has come and it seems like the end has arrived. Like there’s nothing more waiting ahead, like that’s where it all stops. The white stone fountain is still, its purpose forgotten. The yew hedges are thickly covered in snow, two high walls of frost curving along the wide driveway hidden under a blanket of cold of its own. No footprints in the snow. It’s only been a few days since the last delivery of provisions was brought in. 

The house is silent and the large diamond-paned window is cold against his cheek. 

Suddenly he sees movement in the distance, the wrought-iron gates shimmer and two dark figures appear at the end of the driveway, starting to tread through the snow, one of them cloaked in red. 


	2. Chapter 2

***

_We used to be best buddies and now we're not, I wish you would tell me why._

_Do you want to build a snowman? It doesn't have to be a snowman..._

***

She knows the cracks in the grey stone wall by heart now. The deeper ones run horizontally and up, splitting into crooked perpendicular lines which spread in all directions, becoming more shallow and faint, ending in barely visible tiny forks.

She thought she knew this house before, but in the past few months, the familiary has taken on a whole new dimension. She has spent days in every room, looking for distractions, or maybe good memories to hold on to. She found nothing but cold stone, empty space and exhaustion. 

She could read a book, get lost in a story - what with the Ministry having confiscated every non-fiction volume in the house - but she feels lost enough as it is.

A soft pop comes from behind her.

‘Mistress, a visitor is being brought in.’

Narcissa scoffs. 

_Mistress._

She knows the house elf means well, but she can’t help thinking of Kismy’s regular reports to her _real_ owners at the gates. _Mistress was having tea and a scone and she was wandering around the house all today_ , she imagines Kismy saying. 

How pathetic.

‘Cast some warming charms, will you, Kismy?’ Narcissa says hoarsely, throwing off the blanket and moving to stand up. ‘The fireplace isn’t enough to keep this place warm for long in this weather.’

Fleetingly, she wonders if the comment didn’t come out as biting because she meant to spare the elf her resentment or because she has finally got used to the thought of never doing magic again. 

‘Yes, Mistress.’

As Narcissa moves across the room, her legs stiff from the long hours spent in the armchair by the fire, Kismy casts a few spells and the room becomes instantly warmer, the heat spreading and following Narcissa out into the corridor.

Still, the stone under her feet is cold and the entrance hall is dark as she walks in.

‘Mrs Malfoy, Mr Zabini has been granted permission to visit,’ Auror Cowden says as Narcissa stops in front of them.

‘Thank you,’ she says to the Auror while extending her hand at Blaise. He quickly removes his gloves and grasps it in both of his, squeezing tightly.

‘How is he?’ Blaise asks.

She used to feel something at the question, she remembers. Now the only thing she feels is tiredness at giving the same reply yet again.

‘I don’t know,’ she says.

They walk quietly through the cold corridors and up the stairs, shoulder by shoulder, the Auror in tow behind them. The portraits’ eyes trail them, a rare grunting sound echoing around the stone walls from time to time, making Auror Cowden clear his throat loudly.

As they approach the door, Narcissa has an overpowering sense of being caught in a time loop. This situation has happened more times than she can count and the result has always been the same.

She leans against the door and knocks softly.

‘Draco, darling? Blaise is here to see you,’ she says, wondering if her words sound equally flat to everyone else’s ears. To Draco’s ears. ‘He was given permission to visit you. Would you let him come in?’

 _In… in… n… n…_ , the sound reverberates around the corridor.

Then, there’s silence.

Narcissa can hear Auror Cowden’s feet shift uneasily behind her and Blaise’s shallow breathing over her shoulder. She knocks again.

‘Draco?’

She turns the knob on the door, knowing very well her hand will meet pressure, and it does, the door staying closed.

Silence stretches and the Auror clears his throat again.

‘Kismy,’ he says loudly.

With a pop, the elf appears next to him, bowing her head.

‘Sir?’

‘Is Mister Malfoy okay?’

Narcissa suddenly feels out of breath. She presses her forehead against the door, closing her eyes. Time curves in on itself yet again, eating its own tail.

‘Kismy was seeing him today, sir, when Kismy was bringing him food, but Kismy is seeing again,’ the elf says earnestly, disappears and next, a muffled pop comes from the other side of the door. Then silence, followed by a soft clattering sound and a moment later, Kismy is back with a food-loaded tray. ‘Master Malfoy is sitting in the window, sir,’ - Narcissa’s lets out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding - ‘looking out at the garden and he wasn’t eating anything Kismy was bringing him today. He isn’t talking to Kismy.’

The Auror makes a strangled sound of acknowledgement. ‘Thank you, Kismy. You may go.’

As the elf disappears, Narcissa feels the weight of a hand on her shoulder. 

‘Let me?’ Blaise says quietly.

Another twist, another curve, another loop restarts, but Narcissa only nods and moves away.

Blaise splays his hands flat on the door.

‘Draco? It’s me,’ he says into the silence. ‘I, ehm… I just wanted to see how you were. See if maybe you’d like to talk for a bit?’ Blaise’s eyes trail across the door as he waits. Nothing happens. ‘We could go out into the gardens for a walk?’

They all wait, frozen in place. All Narcissa can hear is her own breathing.

Blaise pushes away from the door with a sigh and walks up to Auror Cowden.

‘I need to see if he’s okay. Can you _Side-Along_ me across the door?’

The Auror shakes his head curtly.

‘Any non-life-sustaining magic is disallowed inside the house and Mister Malfoy is fine, the elf can’t lie.’

Blaise scoffs and his lips form a thin tight line.

‘He is very clearly _not fine_ ,’ he says through clenched teeth, ‘he isn’t responding, he isn’t eating and he hasn’t left his room in weeks.’

‘Months,’ Narcissa amends quietly.

The Auror shakes his head.

‘I have clear orders. Mister Malfoy has been confirmed alive and any non-life-sustaining magic is disallow…’

‘Oh, so we’re just going to wait for him to die?’ Blaise whispers fervently into the Auror’s face. Cowden stares back at him impassively.

Blaise growls and strides back to the door, plastering himself against it again.

‘Draco, I’m worried about you, you can’t do that… Come on, let me in, I just need to know you’re… there… I need to see you.’ After a lapse of silence, Blaise’s voice turns soft and pleading. ‘Remember how we… how we used to play in the snow? Here, outside on the grounds, when we were little? We would run around and have snow fights and laugh…’ Blaise sighs and his shoulders shift as he moves his hands down the surface of the door. ‘I miss you, Dray. I miss having you around. Let’s go out of the house. It’s so beautiful out there, with the snow… Everything is so white, so peaceful and quiet… Let’s just have a walk. We don’t need to talk… Just get some fresh air and…’

Suddenly there’s a loud swishing sound from inside the room, as if a window has been opened and the wind blown inside and then the sounds of something falling, something breaking, a loud bang as the door is hit from the inside and after just a few seconds everything falls completely silent again.

The first time it happened a few weeks back, Narcissa felt as if her heart had stopped, cold sweat breaking out on her skin, her head spinning.

Now, it seems like just another swift curve in the loop.

The Auror _Disapparates_ but is back after just a few seconds and his face is expressionless again.

‘It seems that he threw a chair at the door, two of the legs broke off. He’s quiet, back in the window again.’

For just a short moment, Narcissa fantasizes about clawing the man’s eyes out for being able to see her son while she isn’t allowed to.

‘I think it’s best if you go now, Mister Zabini,’ Auror Cowden says, extending his arm to lead Blaise back along the corridor.

Blaise looks at him for a moment, his eyes narrow and cold, then walks up to Narcissa and without a moment of hesitation, closes her in a tight embrace. She splays her hands on his back and presses her fingers onto his skin, pretending for just a moment that he’s somebody else.

As the Auror escorts Blaise out, Narcissa comes up to the door and eyes it up and down. She takes a deep breath.

‘Whenever you’re ready, Draco, I’ll be here,’ she says at the wood.

***

Kingsley Shacklebolt stares at the hawthorn wand lying idly on his dark oak office desk. 

‘I forgot I had it. He needs to have it back,’ Harry says.

Shacklebolt’s gaze raises to Harry, but for a moment, it seems like he’s somewhere else, his eyes unseeing. He sets his forearms on the desk top and leans forward.

‘Harry… We seem to be having a bit of a misunderstanding here. First of all, are you sure this is Draco Malfoy’s wand?’

Harry’s eyebrows raise. What is this about? He looks down at the smooth piece of wood, its body straight, ends rounded. One of the two wands that brought Voldemort down. Both thanks to Draco Malfoy.

‘Yes, I’m sure, of course I’m sure,’ Harry says. ‘I’ve had it all this time, I just… Well, you know I wasn’t in the best shape, so… I just pushed all of this out of my mind for a bit…’

Shacklebolt raises one large hand and Harry falls silent.

‘No, no, Harry, that is not the point.’ He heaves a sigh and falls back into his chair, eyeing Harry for a moment before continuing. ‘Draco Malfoy testified during his trial that his wand had been destroyed during the duel at Malfoy Manor when you broke out of there.’

Harry frowns, processing the information. 

No wonder no one came looking for it all this time, then.

‘Well, I guess… erm… maybe he didn’t want to say… I took it from him.’ This time it’s Shacklebolt’s forehead that wrinkles in surprise as he stares at Harry. ‘I basically… wrestled it out of his hands, to be honest. Not my proudest moment, but I needed one because mine had been broken.’

Shacklebolt remains frozen for an uncomfortably long moment and then his whole body moves, his eyes lifting up as he utters a long-suffering sigh. He rubs his face with his hands and shoves his chair closer to the desk, propping his forearms on it again and looking up at Harry.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘All right… So… We’ve always assumed you defeated Voldemort with your own wand. Why didn’t you say anything when we collected testimonies?’

Harry shrugs. ‘Well, you never asked and it hardly mattered at that point which wand I used, did it? He was dead, it was over, all I wanted was to sleep for half a year,’ he says simply. ‘Which I did.’

Shacklebolt nods slowly. ‘Of course, of course… So… Draco Malfoy lied in his testimony…? That’s something we’ll have to address…’

Harry starts feeling queasy. This is definitely not going in the direction he was hoping for. A new beginning. Setting things right. Putting the stray ends back where they belong. Then moving forward.

He takes a deep breath. ‘No, I mean… Apparently, yes. But you have to understand, if I hadn’t taken his wand back then, who knows how the battle would have ended, I might not have been able to defeat Voldemort at all. And I have to give it back to him, the wand. It’s his, and I repaired mine, I don’t need it anymore and it’s his… I know the Malfoys are under strict house arrest, so I’d like to ask for permission to visit and…’

Shacklebolt’s hand rises again, cutting Harry off.

‘All right. You are still going to have to walk me through this whole…’ the big hand circles vaguely in the air, ‘business with the wands, Harry, but… you returning this wand to Malfoy is not an option. The house arrest rules imposed on all the Death Eater accomplices only allow the use of life-sustaining magic by the house elves assigned to them. The wizards and witches under house arrest can’t use magic. Their wands are kept safe by the Ministry. And this one is going straight into the vault, too.’

Harry feels as if he had slept through a decade, not six months. The people arrested were stripped of their magic? 

‘So, you mean… they can’t do magic at all? When did this happen?’

‘Their wands were confiscated and the houses were charmed with spells to detect wandless magic, with the exception of the specific house elves and Aurors assigned to them. Anyone who visits has to give up their wand as well. The rules were set as the trials drew to a close, as a prevention system, so it’s been like that all along, it’s just…’

‘I wasn’t there anymore,’ Harry finishes under his breath.

‘No one has any right to hold that against you, Harry, you really…’

‘How are they?’ Harry cuts in, suddenly feeling very hot all over.

‘Pardon?’

‘How are the Malfoys?’ he asks, enunciating his words, suddenly feeling very bold for the first time in a very long time. ‘I’m quite sure I testified Narcissa Malfoy had saved the world?’

‘Well,’ Shacklebolt seems taken aback. ‘Yes. You did. That is why she didn’t join her husband in Azkaban.’

‘Good.’ Harry’s eyes narrow. ‘How _are_ they?’

‘They… They’re not causing much trouble, though recently there have been reports of noises, things being broken… It seems like… they’re angry. Maybe they’re fighting. The Aurors or their house elf regularly check on them and there have been no reports of injuries. It seems like… rare outbursts, perhaps…’

Harry can’t say exactly what makes him dislike the idea of this so much, but he feels the rush of blood in his veins and - just like the other day in the snow - he believes he experiences the distinct sensation of _being alive_.

‘I would like to request a wandless visit, please,’ he says calmly.


	3. Chapter 3

***

_Do you want to build a snowman? Or ride our bikes around the halls?_

_I think some company is overdue, I've started talking to the pictures on the walls_

_It gets a little lonely, all these empty rooms, just watching the hours tick by..._

***

The corridors are all the same - grey, dark, cold and lined by the faces of dead people. She has been wandering around the house for so long, listening to her own footsteps echo against the stone that she is no longer sure where she is. She used to be able to move around this house with her eyes closed. Now her eyes are open and she feels utterly lost. 

Bright light brings her out of the stupor and she realises she’s in the wide second floor corridor that ends in a high window looking out to the hilly lands behind the house. She stops in front of it, squinting at the whiteness, the world outside painfully dull. She feels like she should regret not being able to go out, be angry about being trapped in this dark place which has witnessed so many bad decisions, so much wrongdoing. But she doesn’t, she isn’t. The hills in the distance look as tiring as the walls that surround her. As still, as silent, as mundane.

Either way, as long as he makes this place his prison, she will. No matter what anyone says.

Suddenly a soft pop comes from behind her.

‘Mistress,’ Kismy says in a soft voice, ‘Kismy is bringing Mistress some hot cocoa…?’

Narcissa turns and sees the elf’s hands outstretched, holding out a mug filled with a dark liquid. She accepts it and turns back to the window, closing her hands around the warm mug.

‘Thank you, Kismy. Have you brought Draco some dinner?’

‘Yes, Mistress, Kismy was bringing Master Draco dinner and taking back the breakfast. Master Draco wasn’t eating his breakfast and he wasn’t looking at Kismy when Kismy was bringing the dinner. Should Kismy bring Master Draco some hot cocoa, too?’

‘Yes, please do,’ Narcissa says tiredly and the elf disappears with a pop.

‘The boy will starve himself to death,’ a familiar low voice says suddenly from somewhere behind her left shoulder.

Narcissa closes her eyes and takes a sip from the mug. She knows the cocoa is sweet, but all she can taste is ash.

She has put the portrait here to push away the resentment and heartbreak. Yet, her treacherous feet have brought her right here yet again. She sighs.

‘There is nothing I can do, Lucius,’ she says quietly. ‘I’ve tried everything, you know that.’

‘How could you have let it come to this?’ the portrait hisses viciously.

Narcissa turns towards him, feeling exhausted rather than angry again.

‘Do you mean, how could _you_?’ she says.

‘You’re there to carry our legacy, and yet, our family has been stripped of magic, you live like rats, skulking in the dark, accepting defeat. Our line will end with him and we will no longer be.’

Narcissa drinks from the mug, letting the ash fill her mouth and tilts her head to gaze at the portrait. The face of the person in it is younger than the one she remembers, smoother and brighter. Lucius’ hair is tied at the back with a black ribbon, his black suit freshly pressed. His robe flows down his shoulders and he’s holding his cane, his hand wrapped tightly around it at middle-length. 

She wishes he would speak the words of the man from the portrait, the one who was strong and unyielding even when he was wrong. Rather than the words of the broken man who chose the coward’s way out. 

She’s tired of talking to this man. 

‘We’re still here. It’s you who no longer is,’ she says, walking away.

***

The smell of the food is making him nauseous and he can’t say whether it’s from hunger or disgust. He brings the mug closer and inhales the sweet scent, his head swimming.

The world today looks exactly the same way it did yesterday and the day before and in a way, it’s comforting. Its steadfast insistence on being dead makes him hope there is no more evil waiting to happen. Perhaps just another blackout ending in a broken piece of furniture waiting for him as he comes back to himself, but he got used to those. They’re a welcome substitute of the sleep that refuses to come to him for longer than two, three hours at a time these days.

‘Staring at the snow again, boy?’ a muffled snarl comes from behind him. ‘How much longer are you going to spend burying this family’s future?’

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, nestling the mug between his drawn-up knees. Blasted Permanent Stricking Charm. Blasted Septimus, letting father walk in yet again.

‘Go away,’ Draco mutters in a hoarse voice.

‘Come up and talk to me like a man, Draco.’

Draco glances at the wall, though he knows very well the portrait is safely covered with a white sheet from the bed.

‘You need to stop this childish nonsense, boy!’ Luscius’ voice raises. ‘You are the man of the family now, you have a duty to serve!’

Draco curls in on himself, bringing his bony knees closer to his chest. He feels cold, his shoulders are trembling, the mug suddenly feels scorching against the palms of his hands. All he needs is a simple _Muffliato_ \- how did it go? A simple swish through the air, the wood smooth between his fingers, the magic running through his veins - how did it feel? He can’t remember.

‘You think you can hide from me? You think you can run from your duty?’

‘Shut up,’ Draco says weakly.

‘You need to stand up for yourself!’

Draco’s feet are freezing, his head hurts and he can’t draw in a proper breath. 

It’s happening. 

It’s happening again. 

He focuses on the sensation of heat from the mug.

He doesn’t want to have this conversation.

He wants it all to go away.

To be silent.

‘This is not how I raised you!’ Lucius bellows.

‘Shut up,’ is the last thing Draco remembers saying.

As his eyes open, he feels his entire body aching, his flesh stretched over his bones as if it wasn’t accustomed to the shape. He looks at his hands and notices he’s no longer holding the mug. He turns his head and sees the white sheet stained, covered in splatters of brown liquid, the mug shattered to pieces and scattered on the floor below the portrait. 

Silence fills the room.

Draco takes a deep breath, straightens his legs on the large sill and turns his gaze to the snow outside the window, resting his forehead against the cold pane.


	4. Chapter 4

***

_Please, I know you're in there, people are asking where you've been._

_They say ‘have courage’ and I'm trying to, I'm right out here for you, just let me in._

_We only have each other, it's just you and me, what are we gonna do?_

***

‘I dunno, Hermione, this is not how this was supposed to go.’ Harry goes out onto the porch and passes her a mug of hot cocoa. He joins her on the wooden bench as she raises the side of the blanket for him. He tucks it around his legs and his waist and wraps his hands around a mug of his own. ‘I walk into the Ministry with two wands, I walk out with one…’

Hermione tilts her head, still looking out at the garden. ‘Well, in all honesty, it _was_ a Death Eater’s wand…’

‘Oh, please,’ Harry rolls his eyes. ‘If there’s a lesson in the last seven years of our lives, it’s that nothing is either black or white.’

Hermione turns her head to smile at him and he smiles back. 

Their snowman is now a barely recognizable heap of snow with the pointy end of the carrot sticking out. After the first heavy snowfall of the year, it got a little milder for a day or two but now the weather is back to wintry. It’s snowing again - Harry watches the big soft snowflakes silently float down and melt into the fluffy coat covering the ground. The sun is low in the sky and sends a golden glow across the snow. 

Harry brings the mug to his mouth and breathes in the sweet chocolate smell.

‘What do you make of all of this?’ he asks into the mug. ‘The house arrests? The stripping of magic policy?’

‘I understood the purpose when these measures were implemented as the trials were ending, as a temporary measure, until a more comprehensive plan was designed. I understand they needed time to investigate, to check all the testimonies thoroughly - that’s probably what they’re doing with Malfoy’s wand now, _Priori Incantating_ it and what not…’

‘Well, I hope the final _Expelliarmus_ knocks their socks off,’ Harry mutters into his mug.

Hermione chuckles and there’s a short pause before she continues. ‘So there were never any timelines set on the house arrests or the no-magic policy. It was assumed they were temporary. And now, it’s been six months, the world has largely gone back to normal, people are going about their every day business, satisified that the danger has been removed from their doorsteps, so… I guess there’s no immediate need to come up with a better plan. Politics as usual.’

Harry sighs and nods. It seems that not everyone sees this time as an opportunity for a new beginning.

It’s been a week and Harry’s request for a visit _is still being processed, Mister Potter_. Is still being processed. Harry scoffs.

‘You said they were fighting…?’

‘Huh?’

‘You said Shacklebolt mentioned that there had been reports of noises from the house? That Draco and his mother were fighting?’

‘Oh… Well, yes, reports of noises, things breaking, he said. I don’t think they know what’s happening. I don’t think they _care_.’

Hermione hums. ‘It can’t be healthy to have your magic suppressed for such a long time…’ she says pensively.

Harry turns his head towards her. ‘What do you mean? That the noises can be somehow connected? Like… wild magic or something?’

Hermione shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Just thinking out loud.’

Harry frowns, cradling the mug between his thighs. It’s got much colder already. He reaches under the blanket, brings out his wand and casts warming spells on both his own and Hermione’s mug.

‘Thanks,’ she says.

Harry stares at his wand. So quick and easy. Effortless. Taken for granted. 

He sets the wand down at his side and looks back at the snowy garden. 

The crisp air is completely still and smells fresh, like a new beginning hiding just around the corner. Harry feels as if the world has exhaled its wretchedness, taken a deep breath and is waiting for a signal to release it, to set everything back on the right track again.

‘Okay, I’ve made up my mind,’ he states. ‘I’m going over there tomorrow and pulling the Saviour-of-the-World card.’

***

Narcissa listens to the snow crunching with the three pairs of slow footsteps. 

Her eyes roam the garden, which she hardly ever visits anymore, but she sees nothing worth looking at.

She feels a soft touch on her left arm.

‘How are you, Cissy?’ Andromeda asks quietly.

Narcissa throws a glance over her shoulder, though she can hear the Auror still following them. She doesn’t like the idea of saying anything meaningful in front of this man. This man who has seen her son but won’t let her.

‘Tired,’ she finally responds.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Andromeda says. ‘I won’t keep you long. It’s just that I have been waiting to see you for so long…’

Narcissa shakes her head slightly. ‘No, no. Thank you for coming. I appreciate it, truly.’ She looks into Andy’s black eyes and when she sees the worry there, she averts her gaze. ‘The tiredness… is a permanent state of affairs nowadays.’

‘I see… And Draco? How is he?’

Narcissa looks down, watches the hem of the heavy robe tangle around her ankles. Her boots are starkingly black against the white snow. The contrast makes her eyes hurt.

‘I don’t know,’ she replies with her head down. ‘I haven’t seen him in a long time.’

‘He’s still not leaving his room? But is he all right?’

‘I don’t know,’ Narcissa repeats and it comes out more brusque than she intended. ‘The Aurors are saying he’s alive,’ she adds in a whisper.

Andromeda makes a low grunting sound and throws a short look over her shoulder. Auror Cowden clears his throat loudly. For a long moment, they walk in silence.

‘I’m sure he just needs time,’ Andy finally says, turning towards Narcissa again and taking her hand. ‘You need to be strong, for yourself and for him. You’ll get through this, Cissy. You _are_ strong.’

Narcissa lets her hand be held and raises her head, looking around the bright garden again and missing the grey stone corridor with the closed wooden door.

‘Yes, I know,’ she says.

***

The wood is cold and unyielding beneath her palms.

‘Andromeda was here today. She was asking for you, asking how you were… I wish I knew what to tell her…’ She hears her words echo around the empty corridor. ‘Never mind. Never mind her and everyone else sho comes along to remind us how _strong_ we are. As if we’ve forgotten… We’ve got through all that together, we survived and we’re here, the two of us, Draco. It’s just you and me now, just you and me…’ Still, the only reply is silence. ‘Draco… I’d just like to see you, please… I _need_ to see you, to hold you, I _need_ to know you’re really there… I need _you_ …’ She slides her hands across the wood, feeling empty and cold, her eyes stinging. ‘Why do you want to do this alone? I’m here for you, I’ve always been, and I will be, whatever comes, whatever they throw our way, I’ll be here…’ The last word turns into a sob and her breath hitches. ‘Draco…’


	5. Chapter 5

***

_Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock_

***

Another day comes and the world still looks the same. Fixed, static, sealed in its painful brightness. It seems it intends to stay this way forever. Draco tries to remember what should come next, but his mind doesn’t supply an image, as if filled with the same frost that adorns the edges of the window in swirly patterns. The garden is dead white, the window sill is cold and the air rings with silence. Draco falls in and out of sleep and the only thing that seems to be changing is the food on the tray.

The days melt seamlessly together, punctuated by footsteps in the corridor and knocks on the door.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Draco rests his head against the window pane and gazes out into the garden, waiting for another stream of pleas and appeals.

But this time, a long silence follows, broken only by some barely discernible feet shuffling on the stone floor of the corridor.

_Knock, knock, knock._

‘Erm… Draco…?’

Draco’s head snaps up, swimming because of the rapid movement, and he stares at the wooden door, feeling as if he’s just woken up for the first time in months.

He’s suddenly aware of the pain in his neck, which resists turning in the unlikely direction, and of his chest, which tightens around his heart and of his airways, which fill with cold at his quick intake of breath.

Is his mind playing tricks on him? Has he blacked out again? Is he dreaming? Hallucinating? Is he dead?

_Knock, knock, knock._

‘Draco…? It’s me… erm…’ There’s a moment heavy in hesitation. ‘Potter…?’

The way it comes out like a question almost makes Draco snort, which surprises him. He’s amazed at how unbelievably genuine this dream feels.

Perhaps it’s another stage. Perhaps whatever has been claiming his body so far, pushing his thoughts back and overtaking control, has now snatched his mind, too. Yes, that must be it. 

Maybe an end to all of this is finally in sight. Maybe the brightness will finally dissipate, maybe his eyes won’t hurt anymore, maybe it won’t be so cold.

He closes his eyes and decides to let it play out in his head, whatever _it_ is.

‘Erm… so, it’s probably pretty obvious by now, what with me standing here knocking and all, that I’d like to see you, so… I guess I’m just gonna sit here and wait until you come out.’

Draco opens his eyes to stare at the door again, listening intently.

‘He hasn’t come out in months, Mister Potter…’ says a muffled male voice.

‘Yes, I know, you’ve said,’ Potter replies as Draco hears something slide down the wall outside.

‘You can’t possibly sit here for what might be days or even weeks,’ the man chides.

There’s a moment of silence again.

‘Watch me,’ Potter says clearly, his voice coming from somewhere low to the right of the door.

‘I will _have to.’_

‘Go ahead. Plenty of room on the floor for the both of us.’

Draco hears a low groan and footsteps again, then rustling right on the other side of the wall and some whispering.

‘Thank you,’ Potter says softly.

‘Thank _you_ ,’ Draco’s mother replies.

His eyes move to the wall next to the door. Light footsteps echo around the corridor, retreating and after a moment everything gets quiet again. Then there’s another low grunt.

‘Mister Potter, I must insist…’

‘Sit down and be quiet or go away,’ Potter snaps.

A few footsteps across the corridor floor, some rustling, a sigh, then silence.

Draco watches the door for a moment longer before finally deciding that apparently, act one of whatever is happening to him is over. He turns his head to the window and has to narrow his eyes at the onslaught of nothingness outside. 

He hopes it’s not finished. Whatever it is.

In comparison to the wooden door, the world outside suddenly feels even more dead.

After a while, his eyes grow used to the brightness again and his body relaxes, the tightness gone, until he’s no longer aware of his own breathing.

He waits.

_Knock, knock, knock._

‘Still here,’ Potter’s voice says lightly.

Draco refocuses his eyes, coming out of the white haze and looks at the wall next to the door.

‘Just thought I’d let you know… So that… Well, so that you know.’

This time, Draco does snort - soundlessly, but he feels his chest jerk, making him feel that he has got a body again.

It’s almost like _it_ \- the _something_ overtaking him and pushing his mind down a slippery slope - is teasing him, waiting to see if he’ll take the bait. Should he? Is this a test? What’s the correct answer? 

He looks back out the window and the white blanket makes him remember. Everything is still and fixed. Everything’s finished anyhow.

After minutes or hours - he’s not sure - the world outside turns into a contradiction in terms, both dark and bright. The sky is pitch black but the moonlight floods the sea of snow, making it sparkle in silver and spread upwards, lighting the hedges, the bare trees, the still stone fountain. His eyes don’t hurt as much in the nighttime and it’s both a relief and a curse. It’s easier to see the world outside for what it is - just a garden in winter.

There’s a pop from the corridor and a clatter of china.

Draco looks to the door, but it’s dark inside the room now and the silver lingers on his retinas, obscuring his view.

‘The Mistress is sending some food, sirs,’ the elf’s high voice rings around the walls.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Potter says and there’s movement on the floor on the other side of the wall. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Kismy, sir. Kismy is bringing some hot cocoa, too.’

‘Hot cocoa? Oh, brilliant! I love hot cocoa. Thank you, Kismy.’

‘Kismy is here to serve, sir.’

‘No need for the sir, the name’s Harry.’

The elf utters a strangled half-squeak, half-giggle.

‘Oh, Kismy knows, Mister Harry, sir.’

Potter chuckles. ‘The cocoa is superb, Kismy, thank you.’

‘Thank you,’ comes a low grunt from somewhere further.

‘Kismy is bringing Master Draco his food now.’

‘Oh, oh!’ Potter says with his mouth full. ‘Can you, erm… Can you tell him… that I’ve got time.’

‘I would advise against…’ the low voice starts, but cuts off suddenly.

For a moment, Draco can only hear some shuffling and clanking sounds. 

‘So Kismy should be telling Master Draco that Mister Potter is having time…?’

‘Exa-ly,’ Potter mumbles and smacks his lips loudly.

‘Yes, Mister Potter, sir.’

Draco can make out the outline of the door now. Listening to the conversation, he experiences a strange awareness of something resembling a real world existing on the other side of the wood. It seems as if life’s seeping into his room through the tight slit under the door and for a moment, he’s glad his feet are up on the sill, so even if it does spread across the floor in the darkness, he’ll be safe.

When the elf appears in the room with another soft pop, a new food-loaded tray balanced on its small hand, and immediately takes a few steps in Draco’s direction, it’s like the two worlds come crashing against each other. 

‘Kismy is bringing Master fresh food and cocoa and a message from Mister Harry, who says he is having time.’

Draco stares at the elf, feeling his eyes grow wide. Is this a part of the slippery slope, too? Is he imagining the elf saying this, is he putting words into the creature’s mouth himself? It’s not just voices anymore, the elf _is_ here.

Kismy switches the trays, puts the mug of cocoa on the sill at his feet, snaps her fingers and the room suddenly becomes warmer and the gas lamp in the corner lights up.

Draco narrows his eyes against the dim yellow light. 

‘Is Master needing anything?’ the elf asks hopefully.

Draco can only keep staring at her. Her face sags a little after a while, and next, with another pop, she’s gone.

He keeps looking at the room, his eyes starting to wander across it for the first time in a very long time. The room is dim, but the lamp sends a golden glow over the dark wood surfaces. He can’t remember the last time he saw anything like this. It’s not white, it’s not silver, it’s not bright. It’s not hurting his eyes. It’s not nothing. 

He can’t wrap his head around it.

The armoire is huge and polished and stores his clothes, he thinks. The Quiddich gear is in the chest by his bed, though. The four-poster bed is framed with heavy curtains and used to be very comfortable. He thinks he can smell the food from the bedside table over the scent of the chocolate.

It all seems so… here.

_Knock, knock, knock._

‘Still here,’ Potter calls lightly again. ‘And the sandwiches are delicious, Draco… Oh my God! Peanut butter, yes! I haven’t had that in years.’

Draco looks at the pile of sandwiches on the plate. Having one would mean moving across the room and the world is still… white and frozen and static. The world is dead. Is it still?

He reaches for the cocoa and leans back again, his head never turning to look outside. He wraps his fingers around the warm mug and sips, his eyes roaming the dimly lit room.

He can’t be sure how long he’s been gazing at the carpet, the floor, the door, the wall, the tray. The mug is cold and the cocoa is almost gone, so he puts it aside. He can hear himself breathing. Everything has fallen completely silent. No more sounds are coming from the corridor.

Life seems to have abandoned its quest to seep through the crack under the door. The only thing keeping the room from becoming as still as the nothingness outside is the yellow light from the lamp, flickering brighter and dimmer now and again, laying shadows across the floor, long shapes of black and grey. As long as the light keeps flickering, the room won’t be still. Nothing can be still while you’re the one moving.

Draco isn’t exactly sure how his legs end up dangling from the sill. He holds onto it with his hands, his fingers clutching the edge tightly, and he looks down at the edge of the carpet.

Nothing can be still while you’re the one moving.

His body slides down and he feels as if he’s falling into a deep hole - his body heavy, the sudden rush of blood making his head spin. He lands on the carpet and feels his knees buckle, his legs shaking as they emerge from a long sleep. He clutches onto the edge of the sill and waits for his breathing to even out. His body feels numb, tired from the effort, lacking in energy, in life.

His stomach grumbles. 

He’s sure he can make out the smell of the sandwiches now.

He lets go of the sill and takes short wobbly steps across the room until he can sit on the bed. It’s soft and warm and his backside barely hurts as he falls onto it. He scoots over bit by bit, finally reaching the bedside table and grabbing one of the sandwiches without a further thought. He gobbles it down in just a few bites.

The bread is soft and the spread is sweet and the bites seem to swell inside his mouth. It feels real. Peanut butter, just like Potter said.

His head jerks towards the door. Does that mean he hasn’t imagined all of this? Does that mean all of this is not just another stage of the _something_ taking over control? Does that mean he’s not insane? Or dead? Does that mean that something is out there?

Draco isn’t exactly sure how his legs end up taking him right up to the door, somehow already much sturdier. He reaches for the key and turns it once, the silence broken by a soft click. He waits, breathing shallowly, but when nothing happens, he pulls the door, which creaks faintly, and takes one step to stand at the edge of the complete darkness of the corridor.


	6. Chapter 6

***

_Do you want to build a snowman?_

***

At first, Harry isn’t sure what wakes him up. He also isn’t sure where he is - the damp smell of the place is unfamiliar and he seems to be half-sitting, half-lying on a cold stone floor. He blinks his eyes open. In the darkness, a beam of light is creeping along the dark floor by his feet. 

The door behind him has opened.

Harry turns his head and narrows his eyes at the dark figure above him. It stands there, lit up by the yellow light from behind, incredibly thin, motionless, frozen, staring down.

On the one hand, Harry strongly hoped that this would happen - _believed_ , even, hence the decision to spend the night on a hard cold floor. On the other hand, he’s astounded at how easy it was. 

Perhaps he’s not the only one for whom the time has come to come out of a winter sleep.

‘How was your sandwich?’ Harry asks in a whisper, straightening and stretching his back. ‘I didn’t oversell it, did I?’

A dark lump further down the corridor stirs, but then falls silent again.

Harry stands up, making sure to move especially slowly.

‘Let’s try not to wake him up,’ he whispers. ‘He’s a right pain in the arse, eh?’

He turns to stand in front of Malfoy and he can see him a bit better now. He looks like a ghost of a man, thin as a stick, with bags under his eyes and too long, greasy hair which falls into his tired eyes. He’s fixing Harry with a blank stare.

‘Erm… I’m sorry to bother you. I actually… I wanted to give you back your wand, I’m sorry it took so long for me to remember, and anyway… they confiscated it from me at the Ministry when I went to tell them I wanted to give it back to you…’

Malfoy remains completely still, staring at Harry with wide eyes, his brow slightly furrowed.

Harry looks over his shoulder to the Auror sleeping on the floor.

‘Mind if we… find a more comfortable place to talk?’ he whispers to Malfoy. ‘How about we take a walk…? You’ve got a coat?’

Malfoy’s forehead creases further and he stays silent and still.

‘May I…’ Harry motions to the room, ‘get something for you…?’

He waits for some kind of an answer, but when none comes, he moves forward and Malfoy jerks away, letting him through the door. Harry enters, looking over his shoulder to see Malfoy’s eyes trailing him. He locates a wardrobe, opens the heavy wooden doors and fishes out a heavy long black coat with a high furry collar. He steps back to Malfoy and raises the coat by the collar so that Malfoy can slip it on.

The big grey eyes stay on him for a while longer with a mixture of tiredness and incomprehension, but then Malfoy turns and, a bit clumsily, slips his arms into the sleeves. Harry pulls the collar tight around his neck and steps around Malfoy to button him up. 

He felt like having a new beginning, and if buttoning up Malfoy’s coat for him isn’t it, he doesn’t know what is. It’s like… the same person, but also so very much not, Harry thinks as he wrestles another button through a hole and then realises he’s not sure whether he means Malfoy or himself.

When he’s done, he drops his arms and raises his eyes. Malfoy is still staring down at Harry’s hands.

‘Right,’ Harry whispers. ‘Off we go.’ 

He looks into the darkness of the corridor. His hand goes to the wand holster at his hip, but it’s empty. Darn it. The stupid ‘no magic’ rules.

‘Erm… We’re gonna need some light. Kismy?’ Harry whispers.

After a few seconds, there’s a soft pop and the elf emerges from the darkness. Her eyes travel to Malfoy and she makes a high squeaking sound.

‘Shh!’ Harry says quickly, putting a finger on his lips. ‘We don’t wanna wake him up, okay, Kismy?’ He points to the sleeping Auror and bends down towards the elf. ‘Can you bring us a lamp, please?’

Kismy nods excitedly. ‘Yes, Mister Harry, sir, Kismy is bringing a lamp,’ she says in a barely audible whisper and disappears. Harry takes the time to zip up his winter jacket and there’s no time for anything else because after just a few seconds, the elf is back and holding out an oil lamp, which gives off a dim golden light.

‘Thank you, Kismy,’ Harry says, taking it from her. ‘Please don’t wake anyone up on our account, we’re just going for a walk, okay?’

Kismy nods quickly. ‘Yes, Mister Harry, sir, Kismy won’t be saying anything, Kismy is here if sir or Master need anything.’

‘Thank you,’ Harry whispers with a smile and the elf disappears.

He turns to Malfoy, wondering if he’ll find him still standing there, but he is - just as still, his eyebrows slightly raised now, his arms down along his sides. The high collar hides his pointed chin and the coat hangs on him, a little too big.

Harry takes a breath and raises the lamp.

‘Shall we?’

With no reply coming, Harry decides to just go for it and starts walking down the corridor slowly, intently listening for Malfoy’s move.

After one, two, three, four, five steps - just when the light from behind him stops reaching his eyes and the only thing lighting the way is the oil lamp he’s holding out in front of him - he hears feet shuffle and soft footsteps follow him. He releases a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He keeps looking around, wondering if he’ll remember the way to the main entrance and the garden. Malfoy follows him, always staying a few steps behind and Harry doesn’t look back. Some of the portraits on the walls snore softly and one or two make offended scoffs as Harry passes, lighting them up with the raised lamp. He thought revisiting the place may be an unpleasant experience, but the manor doesn’t bring chills to his spine. It seems quiet, still, innocuous, it seems asleep. 

The corridors are cold and damp, with rare lamps lit up at intersections and staircases. They reach one with two flights of stairs down, a wider and a narrower one, going in two different directions. Harry is sure he didn’t come up any narrow staircases, so he goes for the wider one, but the footsteps behind him stop abruptly, so he turns.

Malfoy is standing at the top of the narrow staircase and watching him blankly.

‘Over there?’ Harry whispers.

Malfoy doesn’t repond, just keeps staring.

‘Well, alright,’ Harry says quietly, moving towards him. ‘After you, then.’

They descend and navigate a maze of corridors, Malfoy leading the way, Harry on his toes to light the way until they reach a single wooden door. Malfoy stops with his hand gripping the handle and in the dim light, Harry can see his fingers trembling slightly.

‘Together,’ Harry says, wrapping his free hand around Malfoy’s. The long pale fingers are bony and the skin has the texture of sandpaper. ‘Okay?’ Harry looks up at Malfoy and after a moment, registers something resembling a slight nod, so he grasps Malfoy’s hand harder and opens the door.

As cold air hits his face, Harry realises Malfoy has led them into the area at the back of the house. There is a single lit wall lamp that illuminates the unkept garden full of bare overgrown bushes and high tall dried grass. A rickety wooden bench covered in snow leans against the wall underneath it and on the ground, the snow is almost up to the knees. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since it started snowing. Everything’s covered in a thick fluffy blanket, the night silver with the light of the moon reflecting off the snow and permeating the air. Even a neglected place like this looks calm and content.

Harry steps down a few stone steps, leaving the lamp on the highest one, and then his feet drown in the sea of snow with a crunching sound.

‘Wow, just look at this,’ Harry marvels, looking around. ‘Everything looks so peaceful, so beautiful. Like it’s calmly waiting to burst back into life again. Like nothing bad has ever happened…’

He looks back at Malfoy, who’s standing at the top of the low stairs. He’s put his hands in his coat pockets and he looks just a tiny bit human for the first time since emerging from his room. In the faint light of the lamp at his feet, Harry thinks he can see one of Malfoy’s eyebrows slightly raised. Just one. Then his gaze moves behind Harry’s back as he looks out onto the garden, as if taking it in for the first time.

Harry trudges through the snow, skipping and kicking it up with his feet, beating weaving paths into the fluffy blanket. He raises his head, looking at the dark starry sky and inhales the cold air until his lungs sting. Blood rushes in his veins and he feels energy humming inside him, ready to burst. He spins around to face Malfoy, a grin on his face.

‘Do you want to build a snowman?’

***

Potter’s standing knees-deep in the snow like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like this neglected, cold, dead back garden is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Snow clings to his trousers in patches of white and as he raises his head and inhales deeply, the moonlight dances in his glasses, reflecting in silver sparks against the surface and for a moment, he seems to be the source of light himself, pushing away the stillness and the death with his inexplicable jumping and kicking.

As he turns back towards Draco, he has a hot, manic look on his face and he couldn't be more _Potter_ and all Draco’s doubts about this being real fall away.

The fire in Potter’s eyes could melt all the snow.

‘Do you want to build a snowman?’

Draco snorts.


End file.
